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Vlogging: Round Two

The vlogging adventure continues! In case you missed my debut, you can find it here.

This first question is from Lacie Nezbeth. I hope it will be helpful for anybody attending a writing conference. Especially one where you get the opportunity to eat lunch with an agent or editor.

Lacie also asked if people still take notes the old-fashioned way at the workshops. You know. Using paper and pen. The answer is yes. In fact, in your ACFW goodie bag, you’ll most likely find a pen and a pad of paper for this very purpose.

Originally, the plan was to vlog the first Friday of every month, but if I stick to that, it will take forever to answer your questions. So the new plan is to vlog biweekly. I’m enjoying this more laid-back, personal format. I hope you’re enjoying it too! If you have any questions you’d like me to answer via vlog, please put them in the comments section of this post.

Let’s Talk: Have you ever gone to a writing conference? If so, what were you most nervous about? Most excited about? If you’re going to the conference and have any questions, please ask them below and I’ll do my best to answer.

Because of the holiday, I will not be posting on Monday. Have a happy Labor Day everybody!removetweetmeme

Laughter and Division

In junior high and high school, I had this friend. We were best friends. And we laughed.

In sixth grade, we’d walk home from school together and every single day, we’d end up laughing so hard our stomach’s would hurt. And okay. Maybe on occasion, one of us would pee our pants just a little.

We were inseparable. We played sports together. We fell through the ice together (why yes, yes we did). We had this ridiculous bike we would ride together. Usually to Taco Bell at midnight. And whoever sat on the rack in the back would scream to the one in front to peddle faster, terrified of the dark that chased us. These Taco Bell rides often led to insane, stomach-hurting laughter.

Throughout junior high, we’d write notes to one another. She’d always put BFF on the bottom of the page. Only I had no clue what BFF meant. And my insecure preteen self wasn’t about to ask. So I’d write it back, hoping it made sense.

I know what it means now.

Best Friends Forever.

Our senior year, about a week after we graduated high school, she and I were sitting on this dock at night. The Mississippi River swirling in front of us with all it’s mysterious currents. Bob Marley playing in the background. And we had this conversation. The kind of conversation that sticks with you.

I remember one of us saying, “Isn’t it weird, how in ten years, we won’t know each other like we know each other right now?” It seemed impossible. But we both knew it was true. She was going to Iowa. I was going to Wisconsin. Things were bound to change.

And they did.

Freshman year. Madison. Witte Hall. Tenth floor. My dorm room. I gave my life to Christ.

In my fervor to share this indescribable feeling bubbling up inside me, I sent my friend an email. I wanted to share this joy and this hope. I wanted her to have it too. My passion could not be contained. It spilled over into a letter. And it absolutely freaked her out. I don’t blame her. I would have been freaked out too.

Christ is love. Christ is life. Christ is light. But sometimes, Christ divides.

My friend and I tried to recover. When we came home for the holidays, I tried to smooth over the damage my uncensored passion created. With a little perspective, I could see that perhaps I’d handled things poorly. My friend tried too. But things were different. We were different. Headed in opposite directions.

I don’t write memoirs.

But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t pull from personal experience when I write my fiction. My debut novel, Wildflowers from Winter, is a romance. But it’s also a story about two friends. Two friends who were once inseparable. Two friends who went their separate ways. Two friends pulled back together by tragedy.

And this Christ who divides?

He also heals.

Let’s Talk: Who was your best friend growing up? Are you still friends today?removetweetmeme

Confessions of a Word Miser: My Experience with Line Edits

I have a confession.

I hold tightly to my words. Letting go of them is no easy thing.

But that’s exactly what I’ve had to do this past week as I’ve worked through line-edits.

I have another confession.

Of all the things that lay ahead as a contracted author, line-edits made me the most nervous.

Here’s my truth. I’m in love with words. I love stringing them together in creative and clever ways to paint pictures for the reader. I don’t like deleting them. And I’m super protective of my voice.

So the idea of line-editing scared me.

I admitted all this to my incredibly talented line-editor, Lissa Johnson, and she said it’s a common malady for writers, especially beginners. Which makes sense if you think about parenting. We tend to be much more uptight with our first born, don’t we?

So how did line-edits go? Did I have to get rid of words I wanted to keep? Does the writing still sound like me? Was it as painful as I feared? Is the story better?

Good. Yes. Yes. Yes (but not in the way I expected). Very much.

Allow me to elaborate….

I deleted words I wanted to keep.
This is a reality for line-editing. I had to delete some of my more creative descriptions. One of the things I loved about Lissa was that she didn’t just tell me to delete them. She explained why they weren’t working.

Descriptions shouldn’t pull the reader from the story. Not even for the sake of admiring the prose. We can get away with it on occasion, but the more often we do it, the more we risk creating a choppy read for our audience. And choppy’s never good.

I’m learning that subtle and simple is usually best. A hard lesson for a writer who tends to go purple.

My voice is still my voice.
Lissa suggested changes, and even made changes, but she did so in my voice. She stayed true to who I am on the page and put to rest my biggest fear: That by the time this story makes it to the shelf, it will no longer sound like me.

Line-editing is painful.
Yes, it is. But not for the reasons I expected.

Deleting a beloved description wasn’t the painful part.

Having to scrutinize a novel I didn’t want to scrutinize was.

I had to look at so many of my words and make sure they meant what I wanted them to say. I had to look at so many of my details and make sure they were accurate and well-researched.

And I had to do it all while wanting to chuck the story out the window. At this point, I’ve edited this thing more times than I can count.

Combing through it so meticulously yet again made me cross-eyed. My lovely editor, Shannon Marchese, assured me that my strong feelings of dislike toward my story were very normal.

The pain is worth it.
Saying goodbye to some of my words was hard. But after stepping back, I discovered that Lissa was usually right. The changes improved the story. And although I might be permanently cross-eyed, it’s now much cleaner. Much smoother. Much better.

I’m learning something I always suspected. Editors are amazing. At least the good ones are.

And when it comes to editing, we’re wise to ignore those feelings of defensiveness, embrace some humility, and trust that they know what they’re doing.

Chances are, they’ve been doing it a lot longer than we have.

Let’s Talk: What scares you most about getting a book ready for publication? What excites you the most?removetweetmeme